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A Lyric Ode on the Fairies, Aerial Beings and Witches of Shakespeare 'The Shakespeare Ode'

Recordings

'This charming ode shows [Linley] sharing with Mozart something of that barely definable but unmistakable gift of melodic genius. The music is as beau ...'There are few discs I expect to enjoy half as much in this year's listening. Very enjoyable, unpretentious music; a disc very well worth trying' (Gra ...» More

’Tis thine alone,
High seated on a radiant throne
Fast by the lyric muse,
Her list’ning offspring to inspire;
And ere they strike Apollo’s golden lyre,
In their full breasts to pour Castalia’s genuine dew.
Deem not my lips profane, would praise
A name unknown to thy chaste ear.
No! Shakespeare now demands thy lays;
Shakespeare, to thee, to Phoebus dear.
And oh! how at thy mighty name
My swelling breast has caught the flame.

At Shakespeare’s happy birth,
With fire etherial, Jove his soul endow’d;
Then bade him spurn the narrow bounds of earth,
And sordid wishes of the grov’ling crowd
That chain the free-born mind. ‘And take’, he said,
‘This sacred charge, O Fancy. To his sight glancing,
In all their colours be display’d
The airy forms which sport
In thy pure fields of light.
For his vast mind, with innate wisdom fraught,
Beyond what taught the bards of yore,
Thy trackless regions boldly shall explore,
I guiding. Thus, O goddess, have I sworn.’

Thy hand his youthful footsteps led
Beneath the pale moon’s beam serene,
Where, tripping light with wanton tread,
The fairies mark the mazy green.
While some the blighting cankers kill
And bless the tender plant from ill.

For whom, at yonder livid flame,
Do you the deed without a name?
Ye secret hags, whence breathes this sound?
Why sinks that cauldron in the ground?
Why do these thunders roll?
Tell me, what means that armed head?
Why comes that bloody child? The hags are fled;
They’re vanished into air. Amazement chills my soul!

No more the elves, with printless pace,
The ocean’s ebbing waters chase,
Or fly the swelling tide;
Nor over the wide-water’d shore
Sit list’ning to the curfew’s sullen roar;
Nor nightly mushrooms raise
Along the mountain’s side.